A Great and Terrible Felicity
by Mdlle. Nancy
Summary: What did Fee think of all this? A Great and Terrible Beauty, as well as Rebel Angels, from Felicity's point of view. Not a oneshot.
1. A new girl is to arrive at Spence today

Just to make sure no one thinks I am taking credit for the below plot, characters, etc...I do not presume to take credit for any of the below plot, characters, etc. All is the copyrighted property of Libba Bray and whatever.

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A new girl is to arrive here at Spence today. Really she was meant to be here at three sharp, but it's four now and she still hasn't shown. Our duty is to welcome her with open arms, we first-class girls.

I almost pity her. But then, she's probably a complete fool, never having been to proper school before. I've heard the most outrageous rumors, because she's lived in India nearly her whole life, and that automatically makes her into some kind of shady village witch. At least, to the other girls. They are like a pack of wolves—always hungry for the blood of innocents. I probably won't bother much with her. New toys are fun, but I shan't make an enemy for myself. If this new girl comes in not knowing a thing about the ways of Spence…I shall teach her a lesson or two, but there's no need to create competition.

Brigid just went to answer the door. It is now four-fifteen. Bravo to the new girl for branding herself an incompetent oaf even before she's entered these hallowed halls.

I saw her on the way to vespers. That pathetic charity-girl was whispering the nastiest falsehoods into her ear, and the fool drank it right up. I set her straight, though I tried for subtlety today. Instead of reminding the new girl about her status, I reminded Ann of hers. Tormenting Ann is miserably easy. But today, it even served a purpose. A little threat works well—in most cases. At any rate, this Gemma Doyle must be slow, because anyone with half a brain could use a mysterious Indian upbringing to their advantage. But no, instead of subtle mystery, she stands up to leave in the middle of Mrs. Nightwing's welcoming speech and is caught for talking during prayers. She wasn't even talking to someone worthwhile—it was the charity-girl.

And now we lounge in the great hall, and I must entertain Pippa and Elizabeth and Cecily with my never-failing wit. But they bore me of late, and really I'd love to tell Cecily and Elizabeth that they're the dullest people I've ever met—they are. Cecily looks for my approval on _everything,_ and most of the time I don't give it, just to see the dejection on her face. Even that gets tiring, though. And Elizabeth is just as bad, hardly ever saying a thing except to warn me that we could get in trouble. She just smiles and goes along with my obviously infallible will. Sometimes I let her squirm in whatever mischief we're conducting, because it taxes her so. Just answering a question wrong in class makes her sweat. I know this well, because I sit behind her in French. I magnify the embarrassment.

Pippa is the only one worth talking to. She is perhaps the most exquisite beauty in the world. This helps me, because she draws the attention and then I hook it, and use it. Pippa thinks I could not do without her, because she thinks she shares my every secret. But for all her looks, she hardly understands a thing beyond torturing the other girls and ridiculous dreams about marrying her "true love". Whatever that might mean.

Pippa would fall down dead if I told her all the things I must hide.

For tonight, I organize a new sort of game, in honor of our new and very dear friend, Miss Doyle. We ought to thank her for coming, since clearly she was sent to us for the sole purpose of entertainment.

Gemma Doyle is a clumsy giant. She tried to make her hair look presentable, but it didn't work very well. It strains at the pins, a few locks falling into her eyes. Just one look proves that she's a half-wit. Perhaps it's from all that heat down in India. Really we're doing her a service, sharpening her reflexes, and letting her know that jolly old England isn't so easy to maneuver as her heathen-ridden home.

Pippa and I invite Ann to come sit with us. Come have some chocolates, Ann, dear; Felicity's mother just sent them from Paris. We feel ever so badly about our conduct.

Ann almost glows, but them remembers Gemma beside her and her face falls. I want to force her to choose. I want to make Ann be cruel. It kills her to hang on our hook; she's struggling hopelessly when Gemma speaks up.

"Go ahead, Ann, darling. I really must catch up on my reading." She tries to mimic my tone, but she sounds like a croaking parrot. She was crying a moment ago. What self-respecting girl would allow herself to cry in public? On her first day at a new school, at that. Gemma Doyle will have to learn some self-control, and fast. Mrs. Nightwing is not much of one for maternal warmth.

Ann will never befriend anyone. She leaps up and latches onto Pippa. Poor little Gemma Doyle, forgotten already and sobbing about it into her tattered little book. I should steal it. Or make Ann steal it. Then, when it's found with Ann's things, I will have the satisfaction of bringing absolute misery to _two_ girls.

They know nothing of misery. I could tear their lives apart—and still, they would know not a thing. How selfish they all are.

Five minutes later, my shriek rings out through the hall. "My ring! What have you done with my ring?" Ann backs away, terrified, but trapped. "Where is it? Tell me this instant!"

She stutters something that ends with "didn't do anything." I feel my face grow hard. "W-w-why d-d-don't I believe you?" I mock her, but at the same time make myself the victim of a cruel and heartless crime.

And of course it is Miss Moore to the rescue. She suggests that we search the great hall. Troublesome, she is, but I can work around her. I've already planned for this, after all. When my ring doesn't appear on the floor, Miss Moore asks Ann to hand over her knitting basket, the knitting basket that contains my sapphire ring.

A moment later, Pippa times her gasp perfectly. We win. Miss Bradshaw is on her way to see Mrs. Nightwing, and she will likely be expelled. Poor, dear Ann, out on her own in the world, and with a tendency for stealing. Not only will Ann be friendless, she will be unemployed at the fresh age of fifteen. I want to beam, but that would give away the ploy.

But no—Gemma opens her mouth again. This time, she matches me tone for tone. "Ann, darling. Don't be modest. Tell Miss Moore the truth."

Apparently, I lost my ring during vespers. Kindhearted Ann found it and put it in her knitting bag. She didn't give it to me right away because she didn't want to embarrass me. And obviously Miss Worthington is now in her debt. I catch myself at the beginning of a very unbecoming stare and change it into a winning smile. Then I commence to remind her of my connections—of my father.

Congratulations, Papa. You have just proved useful for maybe the thousandth time. Please come and visit me now. Oh, wait—he can't see me. How can I catch his attention?

Gemma seems unimpressed, but it's a front. I never aimed for it, but she is an enemy. She could be a threat, even. But I am better than that. Felicity Worthington will not be ruled by some heathen girl. Instead, I follow the advice of the greatest rulers, and invite Gemma into my little club. Hold her close, where I can keep my eye on her. I ignore Ann. She has given me enough pleasure for the evening; tonight is Gemma's night to shine. Tonight, we will trap Gemma in the chapel.


	2. Gemma has passed her test

Gemma has passed her test. She stole the Reverend's whiskey by mistake, but that is forgivable. Or it would be, if she hadn't left it out on my chair in the great hall. So now I race through the halls, trying to hide the whiskey but avoid being late. 

It sits on my chair, mocking me. I snatch it up and nearly smash it on the fireplace. I stop and lean against it, crying. Tears fall, soundless and cold, and I thank every deity there is that no one can see me in my moment of weakness. I have not cried in years. I do not know what possesses me to do so now.

I think I hear footsteps. Quickly I hide the whiskey and regain my composure. I stalk off to class, snapping at every younger girl who stands in my way. I push one over. She cries.

We are making use of the whiskey tonight, in the caves. I take a long drink, then hand it to Ann, who refuses. When I threaten her that we'll kick her out unless she drinks, she obeys. Gemma pretends to be casual about it, but she nearly chokes. Soon enough they are all dreadfully drunk. They think I am, too, but the whiskey barely affects me. I have weathered far more. Still, it loosens my tongue, and I find myself saying things that are a touch too bold even for the famously blunt Felicity Worthington.

I'm going to have many men. The girls stare at me as if I've just told them I'm Mrs. Nightwing in disguise. Then they catch on and call thins out as I twirl through the cave, stopping only when Gemma says, "And admirals."

Everything becomes hard. I narrow my eyes. "No. No admirals." My voice is steel, slicing through the sudden silence. I hope I have cut her deep enough. But no—it is never deep enough. There is always some way to hurt them more. I am young yet—there is plenty of time to hone my technique.

Really they should applaud me. A lesser girl would be shocked into silence at such an artless remark. But I do not bow under the pressure he has given me. I can always twist my ache into their agony. That is all that keeps me going.


End file.
